ANDREA BAKER
EXPERIENCE HAS NO PART IN NATURE
There comes a day when the might of spring locks its door
and the near-dead are left to their dying.
A stray plastic bag pierces itself on barbed wire,
which is nature here. The flaw
of forgiveness is deceit again.
No root, no home.
The city fumes a mirage and the river
pulls toward exchange. Capture the ferry, the ports
and you will rot more deeply, lost to love.
Doors still open, but without a slit
of expanding light or rain. What will fester an illumination?
The toxic florescence of the next dawn cracks itself
like an egg on the rocks. A wren, a wrench, the body
is aggression, a wench.
So laugh and dance.
The world is cruel;
the world is real.
The birds before the bank widen from their squat rows
and consume what the earth hands over. They have
loved and carried love in a sling.
I sculpt the bird.